


Thunder and Explosions

by KathyG



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Caring Sherlock, Flashbacks, Gen, Good Mary, No Slash, One Shot, PTSD John, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Thunder and Lightning, Thunderstorms, Vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-28
Updated: 2016-07-28
Packaged: 2018-07-27 05:16:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7605007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KathyG/pseuds/KathyG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In this now-AU post-Season 3 story, John is caught in a thunderstorm that triggers a flashback, while on vacation in Cornwall with his family, Sherlock, and Mrs. Hudson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thunder and Explosions

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Yitzock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yitzock/gifts).



> This story was written for the Midyear Fic Exchange on the BBC Sherlock fan forum, whose theme is “summer”. My prompts are as follows: thunderstorm, the beach, and some humor (I’ll leave it to my reading audience to judge how well I filled that last prompt). Enjoy this story, Yitzock; hope you like it. And thanks to besleybean on the forum, for beta-reading and Brit-picking my story!

John sat cross-legged on the beach blanket that Sherlock had spread out on the sand for him, his hands clasped in his lap. His flatmate strode toward the nearest vendor’s stand to order some hamburgers. His coal-black Belstaff coat swishing in the wind; at the moment, he was waiting in line for his turn. Beads of sweat formed on the former army doctor’s forehead. John was recovering from several broken ribs that had been inflicted on him at the end of a week-long kidnapping ordeal a few weeks before. He had been released from the hospital two days ago. He still had to be very careful in sitting down and rising to his feet, and he had to avoid bending over. John glanced up at the sky. It had been overcast since they had all got up that morning. The ocean waves were rolling, a sure sign that foul weather was on its way. Mary, their baby, Louise (whom he and Mary had named after Sherlock’s and John’s former landlady, Martha Louise Hudson), and Mrs. Hudson herself were back inside the beachfront hotel. 

_It’s been a much-welcomed summer holiday,_ John thought. _We don’t usually take holidays, nor would we be on one now, if I wasn’t recuperating from fractured ribs._ For a moment, unpleasant memories of his ordeal surged through his head. Thankfully, Sherlock, with the help of DI Lestrade and the Yard force, had come to his rescue, but not before his captor had kicked him viciously in the chest, completely breaking five of his ribs. He glanced down at the rope scars surrounding his wrist. He had been kept tied to a chair, hand and foot, throughout his ordeal, being untied just long enough to go to the loo once a day. 

_I’m free now; that’s the important thing. My ribs are mending. And we're on holiday._ Determinedly, John pushed the memories out of his mind and scanned the ocean waves rolling in. He wiped the sweat off his forehead. _Right now, though, I could use a nice cool breeze!_

A drop of water landed on his nose. As John lifted his head, another landed on his forehead, followed by yet another on his right hand. _It’s starting to rain. That’ll cool us off,_ he thought. _As soon as Sherlock comes back with the food, though, we’d better go inside. Perhaps I should have worn my jacket—as hot as it is, though, I really wanted to leave it off._ He glanced at Sherlock, who had reached the head of the line and was now ordering the food. 

As the minutes passed, the light sprinkle soon turned into a steady rain. John’s greying hair was soon plastered against his scalp, and his red plaid shirt and blue jeans were soaked through. It hadn’t been the first time he had been caught in the rain, though, so he didn’t worry. When he and Sherlock returned to their hotel rooms, Mary would help him change his clothes and dry off. 

Suddenly, a soft rumble of thunder off in the distance caught his attention. _Uh-oh!_ John thought, stiffening his back, swallowing hard, and flattening the palms of his hands into the soft blanket of sand. This wasn’t going to be just a rain shower; this was going to be a thunderstorm. Lightning and thunder tended to trigger his flashbacks, just as fireworks did. They reminded him of the explosions that he had heard too often back in Afghanistan, and sitting on sand wasn’t going to help; it reminded him of the Afghanistan desert. Unfortunately, returning to the hotel wasn’t going to be as easy as it might have been; because of his ribs, John was going to need help in standing up, and then he was going to have to walk slowly and carefully toward the hotel entrance. _Sherlock’s going to have to help me get up._

He took short, rapid breaths as he waited for Sherlock to come back with the food, pressing his palms deeper into the sand. The next thunder that John heard was a thunderclap, and it sounded closer. The rain immediately started pounding his head, and yet another thunderclap startled John. _Please, Sherlock, hurry up with the food!_

A flash of lightning, followed by a still-louder thunderclap, made John almost jump; images of gunfire and exploding IEDs immediately flashed through his mind’s eye. Deliberately taking slow, deep breaths to calm himself, he fought to push the images out of his mind, as he continued to press his palms into the soft sand to steady his body. 

_I’m in Cornwall, not Afghanistan,_ he reminded himself. _That was a thunderclap, not an explosion._ Not _an explosion! Although a lightning bolt_ can _be every bit as deadly as an IED._

“John!” Sherlock was bending over him, a bag of food in one hand. His own curly black hair was plastered to his scalp, and his coat was soaked through. He extended his other hand to John, who grasped it, wincing as a sharp jab of pain shot through his chest; Sherlock helped his friend to his feet. John was very careful not to bend over as he stood up. “Come on, John, let’s get back inside. I’ve got the food. Here, let’s drape ourselves with the beach blanket and get back indoors.” 

John nodded. “Right.” 

After Sherlock had picked up the dripping blanket and had draped it over their heads, the two of them approached the hotel entrance, with John leaning on Sherlock’s arm with one hand and guarding his ribs with the other as he slowly and carefully took short steps. Their shoes left prints in the now-wet sand. As much as John yearned to hurry inside before the storm got any worse, running was out of the question, and so he was striding. He still had to cater to his mending ribs. 

Just as he and Sherlock reached the lobby door, a lightning bolt struck the ground across the car park, and an ear-splitting clap of thunder hurt their ears. _Explosion!_ John thought, as he started to duck, only to be stopped by a strong arm restraining him. _Let me go! That was a bloody IED! I’ve got to go help the casualties!!_

A soft thud caught his attention, but only for an instant. Another—explosion?—sent his mind flying back to Afghanistan; immediately, two strong arms held him tightly around his stomach. “I’ve got to help them—let me go!” he yelled. “I can help them! They will die without immediate medical treatment, so let me go to them!” 

**XXXXXXX**

Sherlock frowned as the first rumble of thunder caught his attention. _Lightning and thunder tend to trigger John’s flashbacks,_ he thought, as he turned toward John. It was clear from the way that John was sitting rigidly on his beach blanket, with tense shoulders, a stiffened body, the palms of his hands pressed deep into the sand, and rapid breathing, that his flatmate was making a strenuous effort to force images of Afghanistan out of his head. 

_Since his ribs are still healing, he can ill-afford a flashback now. I’d better get him back inside as quickly as I can._

Holding the bag of hamburgers in his left hand, Sherlock hurried toward the former army doctor. As he approached John, he noticed that his flatmate was now taking slow, deep breaths— _to calm his nerves, no doubt,_ he thought. 

“John!” 

To his relief, John looked up at him. Sherlock bent over his flatmate and extended his free hand to John, who took it, wincing; Sherlock helped his friend to his feet. John, he noticed, tried very hard to avoid bending over as he stood up. “Come on, John, let’s get back inside. I’ve got the food. Here, let’s drape ourselves with the beach blanket and get back indoors.” 

John nodded. “Right.” 

Sherlock picked up the sopping-wet beach blanket and draped it over their heads, holding it up with one hand so that they could see ahead of them while holding the bag with the other. He was careful to walk slowly so that John could keep up, as the two of them approached the hotel entrance. John leaned on Sherlock’s arm with his right hand as he walked slowly and carefully across the sandy beach, while guarding his ribs with his left. From the corner of his eye, Sherlock noticed that John was grinding his teeth. Part of it, he suspected, was pain, but part of it was also frustration that his healing ribs wouldn’t let him walk any faster. 

As the two men opened the entrance door, the dangerously-close lightning bolt startled Sherlock, and the deafening clap of thunder that sounded practically over their heads made him wince; the noise hurt his ears. Immediately, John started to duck; Sherlock wrapped an arm around John’s stomach in the hopes of keeping him upright. Sherlock dropped the food and the blanket onto the floor so that he could grab his best friend with both hands if he had to, and keep him standing. 

For an instant, John relaxed, but then another ear-splitting thunderclap sounded just outside the lobby door. Frantic desperation etched the former army doctor’s face as he began to struggle; Sherlock wrapped both arms tightly around his flatmate’s stomach to keep him upright. He was careful to avoid John’s ribs. 

“I’ve got to help them—let me go!” John yelled. “I can help them! They will die without immediate medical treatment, so let me go to them!” 

“John! John!” Sherlock shouted. “This is Cornwall—you’re not in Afghanistan! That was thunder you heard, not an explosion.” 

“Sherlock?” A female voice caught the consulting detective’s attention. He turned his head to see Mary and Mrs. Hudson hurrying down the stairs, the baby in Mary’s arms, their shoes thudding on the steps. As the women reached the ground floor, they hurried toward the two men. “Sherlock? Is John all right?” Mary asked, her brows furrowed with worry. 

“He will be when he comes out of this flashback,” Sherlock said, holding his struggling friend upright. “ _If_ I can keep him from ducking or running, that is! Right now, his mind’s back in a war zone.” 

“John!” Mary handed Louise to Mrs. Hudson and placed a gentle hand on her husband’s face. “It’s all right, John—come back! Come back to us, sweetheart. Come back to your daughter and me. To Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson. Come back to us, John.” She rubbed his dripping-wet blond hair and kissed him gently on the lips. A faint scent of perfume reached Sherlock’s nostrils—it was Chanel. “Smell my perfume, sweetheart? You bought me this perfume for my birthday, remember?” 

“Come back, John,” Mrs. Hudson echoed soothingly. “It’s all right, love. You’re safe here. You’re not in Afghanistan now.” She patted his shoulder with her free hand. 

John suddenly went limp; Sherlock was careful to keep his firm hold on his friend’s abdomen so he wouldn’t sink to the floor, and Mary held him up under his armpits. After a moment, John blinked hard, and then, as he steadied himself, he scanned the faces surrounding him. Mary dropped her hands to her sides, and Mrs. Hudson repositioned Louise against her chest. 

“Mary?” John's voice broke. “Mrs. Hudson? Sherlock?” He looked at his baby daughter staring wide-eyed up at him from Mrs. Hudson’s arms, and his face softened. “Poor Louise. Did I frighten you?” He gently patted his daughter’s silky-soft blonde hair, and then stared at the lobby they had entered. “Not—not in Afghanistan…” His voice trailed off. 

“No, John.” Sherlock let go of him. “Not in Afghanistan. You’re in Cornwall, on holiday.” 

“Yeah.” John nodded. “Sick leave.” He glanced down at his dripping plaid shirt as he spoke, and then shook his head at the huge puddles that were forming at his and Sherlock’s feet. His shirt and jeans and Sherlock’s black coat were dark with rainwater. “And we’re soaking wet. Sherlock and I have got to get back upstairs, so we can dry off and change our clothes.” 

“You’ll need help doing that, John.” Mary wiped John’s face with the palm of her hand as Sherlock picked up the bag of food. Her husband nodded agreement. 

“If you’ll give that to me, Sherlock, I’ll heat it in the microwave while you and John are changing clothes. It’ll get cold otherwise.” Mrs. Hudson handed Louise back to Mary, took the bag of food from Sherlock, and left. 

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.” John smiled after her as she headed toward the microwave in the hall. Mary picked up the blanket, folded it, and draped it over her arm. A steady stream of water dripped from the sopping-wet blanket as they approached the lift; Sherlock pressed the button. As soon as the lift door slid open, John, Sherlock, and Mary slowly entered it, with Louise on Mary’s hip and John leaning on Sherlock’s arm. It made a _ding!_ as it reached the first floor, a moment after Sherlock had pressed the _1_ button. 

“Really, John,” Sherlock huffed, as they entered John and Mary’s room seconds later. “One would think you were part cat, the way you can tolerate so little rainwater.” 

“I can tolerate the bloody rainwater, Sherlock; it’s the lightning and thunder I _can’t_ tolerate,” John retorted, wiping his face dry. “Thunderstorms remind me of gunfire and explosions! Particularly when I’m surrounded by sand, as I was on that beach. I especially can’t endure thunder, and the lightning doesn’t help. Anyway, _you’re_ the one who’s part cat, the way you keep bringing dead body parts into our flat and leaving them for me to find.” 

Sherlock smirked, and John rolled his eyes. Laying Louise in the crib that the hotel manager had provided, Mary laughed, and then took the dripping blanket to the bathroom. 

“All right, you two,” she chided, as she came back out, wiping her hands dry. “John needs to dry off, Sherlock, and so do you, so scat. Mrs. Hudson will soon be up here with our food, and I won’t have you two dripping water all over the floor while we eat.” 

Still smirking, Sherlock left the room, and John and Mary laughed. She returned to the bathroom to get her husband a towel while he began to unbutton his plaid shirt; he didn’t dare sit down until he had dried off. 

_At least, the thunder has started to die down,_ he thought, as a more-distant rumble sounded in his ears. He glanced out the window; it was spattered with raindrops, some of which were rolling down the windowpanes, but the clouds were looking lighter than before. _The storm must be travelling through pretty rapidly, so it’ll be gone soon._

**Author's Note:**

> Unfortunately, I don't know how to post graphics on AO3, so this will have to do. If you want to see the great picture that ukaunz drew for my story, go to this Web site, on which I also posted my story: [Thunder and Explosions](http://zorrothefox2000.webs.com/BBCSherlock/thunderandexplosions.html).


End file.
